


So If You're Lonely

by corialis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, First Kiss, M/M, Mixtape, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corialis/pseuds/corialis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a gift. John's feelings about the situation are less than enthusiastic, until they aren't. What could be considered a love story, in pop music and other suggestive favors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So If You're Lonely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prodigy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigy/gifts).



> So about a year ago, prodigy made a Jim/Sherlock Valentine's Day mix CD. You can view the track listing for that CD, along with larger versions of the album art created by yours truly and a link to the 8tracks.com audio, at [Tumblr](http://ourlightsinvain.tumblr.com/post/17755562042/jim-and-sherlock-sitting-in-a-tree-3-a). I strongly recommend at least looking at the track list first to understand this story, though I would also advise that you also click on the image links in the text for the full effect. Jim would want you to.
> 
> Jim's note is also prodigy's brainchild, I am merely borrowing it. I had some ideas about what Jim's "other gift" would be, and then, eventually, this happened. Set ambiguously between seasons 1 and 2.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day.

It doesn't occur to John at the time that there might be anything wrong with the parcel on their stoop. It probably should, given that the list of people who would mail non-deadly things to Sherlock is fairly short and usually restricted to holidays and his birthday, neither of which is approaching on this particular grey and slushy late February morning.

At least he doesn't think so. For all he knows Sherlock has been lying about his birthday to stop John from any “needless displays of sentimentality.” 

In what he will later look back on as a rather significant turning point, he tosses the box on the floor next to the couch, where Sherlock is sprawled in his dressing gown as per usual, scowling at the ceiling. “Post for you.”

Sherlock's brows furrow. “How peculiar. I do hope it doesn't try to explode again.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock makes a small noise of acknowledgement, attention absorbed by his new toy as John wanders into the kitchen. He can hear a ripping sound as Sherlock rambles something about anthrax and...glitter? One can never be entirely sure.

When the stream of monologue suddenly vanishes he realizes it might be best to make sure the package hasn't actually tried to explode and heads back to the sitting room with his newly obtained glass of water. Sherlock is just staring at the box, utterly still, his eyes flicking back and forth and his expression alternating between appalled and something that almost looks like intrigued.

John is three-quarters of the way to the couch before Sherlock realizes he's there and immediately casually begins moving the box aside. As though John will somehow lose interest if he's subtle enough about removing it.

“So did Mycroft forget your birthday, then?”

“Don't be ridiculous, there are branches of government devoted to maintaining Mycroft's calendar,” Sherlock says, still sounding distracted as John sneaks up behind the couch to peer over his shoulder. There's some horrifically garish paper heart, it looks like, covered in more glitter than any one craft store should legally be allowed to sell. The card is perched on top of – well. On top of something. Something particularly indigo and silky-looking and black-accented with laces up the back, along with what seems to be a pair of lace-topped something elses that may or may not usually be accompanied by a garter belt and oh sweet Jesus is that a collar?

John very manfully does not drop his glass. He won't. He can just hear Sherlock in his head informing him that his dressing gown is silk, thank you.

That other thing in the box probably is too.

“Are you going to try it on?”

He regrets asking as soon as the words have escaped, and Sherlock looks up with a positively evil grin. 

“Do you think I should?”

John swallows hard and chooses to ignore the question, opting instead to focus back on the glitter. It is definitely a heart. Within another heart. Surrounded by roses. And then, of course, doused in sparkles. [“Dearest,” it reads, “Happy Valentine's!”](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v474/officialwhich/valentine-300x2381.gif)

The exclamation mark is, naturally, dotted with another heart. “Call me!” It says. “-JM.” 

“So we should probably get rid of this, then,” he says, already immediately regretting even bringing this box inside and not just leaving it there to rot in the snow in the gutter. “Probably has chemicals on it. You know. Like how he poisoned that boy with the shoelaces. Shouldn't touch it.”

“No,” Sherlock says, eyes still not quite there. “Not his style. Poisoning me from a distance would be no fun at all.”

John wouldn't let something like “not fun” get in the way of his poisoning anybody, but that is why he is a normal person and not a psychopath. By certain definitions. He picks up a long pipette that's lying on the table amidst other experiment detritus and uses it to gingerly flip the paper over, tipping glitter onto the other things that he is determinedly still not thinking about.

The handwriting is marginally neater but that one condescension to order is barely visible due to the [large, hideous rose bouquet background](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v474/officialwhich/backcover-300x238.gif). Plus the red bow on top and multiple scribbled hearts, and what appear to be two stick figures holding hands, and is that a lip print?

The whole thing smells of roses with an undertone of some kind of cologne that gives John flashbacks scented with sweat and chlorine and he tries to fight off a shudder.

“Is this a mixtape?”

“CD, it appears.” Sherlock's voice is still very carefully pitched at neutral but John's brows knit together at what he suspects is an undercurrent of interest.

“Beginning with ABBA?”

The shudder finally sneaks out despite his best efforts. John has his guilty musical pleasures as much as any man who happens to occasionally sing “Waterloo” in the shower but the sheer amount of pop music on display before him is a bit much.

Sherlock grabs John's laptop from where he left it next to the couch and slides the disc in.

“Sherlock! Viruses! Hacking! I have personal information on there!”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “If anyone of any technical skill wanted something off your computer they'd already have it.”

Sherlock of course does not own headphones. Headphones are a concession to the consideration of other people. Other people who might not want to be sitting next to their flatmate – specifically a flatmate that they may or may not enjoy casually touching more than is strictly appropriate or flatmate that they may have just had the occasional few thousand naked thoughts about – while listening to the Divinyls wailing about “when I feel down I want you above me.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock murmurs, and John scowls. He will not be taking any chances on any of this, pretty birds having flown or not.

A note had fallen out when Sherlock went to take out the CD, and John picks it up.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Happy Valentine’s!! xoxox I’m sorry this is a few days late - I was really worried when it came back in the post marked RETURNED TO SENDER several times!! I think the post office doesn’t approve of our romance :( Don’t worry, I’ll fix it <33_

_Since the holiday of love was coming up, and our ten-year anniversary’s not too far off either (omg!!), I got to thinking about our relationship and came up with a romantic mix CD just for us!! It has 14 tracks - JUST LIKE FEBRUARY 14! Right?_

_I love you too and I hope you enjoy the CD I made just for you! Everything on it makes me just sigh thinking about you! Don’t worry, we’ll be together soon!_

_Hopefully this sends properly this time :PP <3_

_xoxoxoxoxo <333  
JM_

_~PS~ I hope you like my other gift >:P_

“Ten-year anniversary?” he asks.

Sherlock is apparently too busy contemplating whether or not he's going to be Moriarty's girl to respond.

–

Sherlock listens to the CD at least three times a day every day for the next two weeks. If John does not get the refrain of “I think! You're fine! You really blow my mind!” out of his head soon he is going to puncture his own ear drums. He could do it. He knows how. 

Plus, one uncomfortable dream about Sherlock in a nun's habit was enough, thanks.

“Must he keep implying that I'm your girlfriend?” John asks one day after the insipid Canadian has blasted into his ears for the umpteenth time.

“That's what bothers you?” Sherlock asks, only half interested. 

That is certainly not the only thing that bothers him. Whoever Moriarty thinks he is, whether he is or is not the motherfucking princess, he is trying to infringe on John's territory and he is holding more of Sherlock's attention with his stupid glittery hearts than John thinks he probably has throughout the totality of their friendship and he hates it more than he even has words to express. Apparently that's what it takes to hold Sherlock's attention these days, right in line after after blowing up old ladies and nearly getting his flatmate killed. Glitter. Glitter and lingerie and oh, right, also being an actual psychopath.

Moriarty is slowly slipping under their door and filling the apartment like a hideous sparkly cloud, like the glitter John keeps finding in his coat collars and stuck to the forks, and John doesn't think Sherlock hates it as much as he should. And it's not that he's jealous, that would be ridiculous, Sherlock is into whatever Sherlock wants to be into for whatever inexplicable reason, but there's something ugly and angry prowling around behind ribs just waiting for the opportunity to be uncaged.

–

Regardless of whether he is Sherlock's girlfriend – which, no – John does catch himself at one point contemplating whether Moriarty is actually hotter than he is. Objectively he supposes Moriarty is _prettier_.

Clearly the descent into madness is a slippery slope paved with pop music. Though slippery slopes aren't necessarily paved, he thinks. Lubricated?

Christ.

– 

John is beginning to suspect that Sherlock is actually tormenting him on purpose. Whoever adapted “Take Me Home Tonight” for the violin – and honestly that was probably Sherlock's own composition – clearly had no sense of human decency. 

Based on the mischievous look in Sherlock's eyes every time he plays it, John also suspects that Sherlock is very staunchly resisting the urge to giggle in smug self-satisfaction.

The suspicion only increases when he hears the first notes of what is clearly shaping up to be the string version of “I Touch Myself.”

It's almost inconsiderate, given the amount of time John spends thinking about Sherlock while doing just that. In an alley somewhere, desperate and pushy and full of adrenaline, his back against a brick wall and his hands clutching at Sherlock's ridiculous coat, or in their hallway, sagging against the wallpaper and still laughing like the first time they met, since the first time he wishes one of them had just reached over and pulled the other to them. 

He thinks about it every time Sherlock pushes slightly farther into his personal space, every time he looks up and sees that Sherlock has been watching him from across the room, every time their eye contact holds for just longer than it should. He carries around this ridiculous wanting like an extra layer under his skin, feeling it expand with every delirious chase and graze of Sherlock's hands. Pathetically, he is even beginning to find the violin covers of the 80's greatest hits endearing.

-

Even with the newfound constant musical accompaniment to his existence, he's generally quite content with his living arrangements. The inconvenient issue of being perpetually half-hard around one's tease of a flatmate isn't too much to put up with in exchange for the low rent and interruptions to what used to be the monotony of his existence and so he's humming absentmindedly as he cleans the kitchen, though he does wish he weren't quite so aware of the color stains that different bodily fluids leave on subpar linoleum. 

“You know it wouldn't kill you to clean up after your own experiments once in a while,” he comments offhandedly after glaring down a particularly stubborn bile mark.

“One can never be sure,” Sherlock responds from his illogical position sprawled across three of the kitchen chairs. There is far too much amusement lurking in his voice for John to be entirely comfortable.

“You usually seem to be,” he says.

Sherlock props himself up on one elbow, looking rather alarmingly Page Three about the whole thing. “You don't trust me to do it properly anyway.”

This is not untrue. While Sherlock certainly devotes himself singlemindedly to tasks he's deemed interesting enough, John is surrounded by evidence that states that tidying up is not one of those. 

“I'm not your–” he cuts off abruptly when he realizes just what he has been humming and why Sherlock sounds like he's going to start laughing any minute now.

“Not my French maid, where you'll meet me at the door, perhaps?” Sherlock is having trouble getting out the words as he falls back laughing across the chairs.

John resists the urge to stick out his tongue and chucks the soggy towel at him in response before he dissolves into what he will not think of as giggles and determinedly does not think about what Sherlock would look like in a maid's costume.

-

John comes home from work one March afternoon to a faint haze slowly working its way through his flat and sighs. 

He immediately mentally kicks himself for inhaling whatever potentially toxic chemical has been set loose through the room. “Sherlock!” he yells before holding his breath as he hurries toward the kitchen where the fog is thickest, trying to push words like “asphyxiation” to the back of his head. 

“John!” Sherlock sticks his head out from around the doorframe and _beams_ and it's frankly a bit unnerving. 

“Are you dying?” he asks cautiously. 

Sherlock makes a 'tch' noise and practically rolls his eyes. “No moreso than usual. Merely a small and somewhat unanticipated reaction.”

John shakes his head and walks over to open the windows, but he can feel a pleasant sort of lassitude creeping through his muscles and all he wants to do is lie down on the couch and maybe nuzzle into the cushions a bit.

“Sherlock,” he says, realization very slowly sneaking up on him. “Are you high?”

“Quite possibly,” Sherlock says, still beaming.

“Are you sure we aren't going to die?”

“Mostly.”

Instead of protesting like he should, John lies down on the couch and giggles. Much to his happy surprise, Sherlock wanders over in a somewhat haphazard fashion and gracelessly flops down on top of him in a full-body sprawl across John, their torsos pressed together and one of Sherlock's legs in between his. 

Sherlock props his head up on one hand and looks at him thoughtfully, his gaze flicking up John's neck and lingering on his mouth. John can hear him humming and can fill in the words in his head almost as clearly as if Sherlock were singing them himself. 

_Oh pretty baby, now that I've found you, stay..._

He raises both of his eyebrows as far as he can manage.

Sherlock just shrugs, corners of his mouth crooked, and John can feel the buttons on his shirt slide slightly against his skin through his shirt. He wants to push up into it and must have squirmed a bit and he feels Sherlock's breath catch. _Oh_ , he thinks and smiles, and curls his fingers around Sherlock's jaw.

“Come here, you madman,” he murmurs as he pulls Sherlock's face closer and kisses him and Sherlock makes a small, pleased noise into his mouth.

He pulls back and Sherlock just looks at him, tentative and wild-eyed like an animal unsure of whether it's about to bolt and John reaches up and pushes a strand of hair off his face and grins, and Sherlock smiles at him and it's like everything else has ceased to exist.

–

At one point the CD gets stuck and plays “Call Me” on repeat until John's laptop battery dies. Sherlock blames John's terribly abused computer. John thinks Moriarty hacked it somehow and made it do that out of spite that Sherlock seems to be ignoring him.

Then Sherlock asks, utterly deadpan, if he'd like to roll him in designer sheets and he stops thinking.

Being in a relationship with Sherlock isn't really all that different from being best friends and flatmates with Sherlock. Evidence unfortunately thus points to John having been in love with Sherlock from the start, but he has mostly accepted that at this point.

The most marked difference is the newfound and extremely exciting additional sexual rewards.

Usually he spends their few quieter hours puttering about as Sherlock indulges in various Sherlockian pursuits, correcting his website commenters or analyzing concrete samples from 18 different bridges or whatever else Sherlock does for fun. John will sit at one end of the couch with Sherlock sprawled across the other three-quarters of it half-watching _EastEnders_ reruns and muttering at the TV. He'll get up to get something, Christ knows Sherlock never does, and when he gets back to the couch Sherlock will have managed to fill up the remaining fourth and so John instead settles into the space left by the curve of Sherlock's hips, his back settling in against the curve of his pelvis just between his stomach and groin, and Sherlock shivers. Things tend to progress from there.

–

It's somewhat alarming how attractive John finds it that Sherlock just knocked a man out with a spray paint can but he _had_ been threatening John's life up against a brick wall. John's tactic of trying to talk him out of it in the interest of not complicating things any further hadn't been going as well as he'd hoped. But then the man had crumpled right in front of him after a blow to the temple, and if his relieved sigh sounds a bit more like a laugh than is decent he just attributes that to Sherlock's terrible influence.

“My hero,” he says, tilting his head back against the wall and trying to even out his breathing.

“John,” Sherlock is hovering over him, raising and lowering his hands aimlessly and John wonders briefly if he's waiting for permission to touch before he grabs at the lapels of Sherlock's coat and tugs.

“Thanks,” he says against Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock's eyes practically boring holes into him before he kisses him.

“Should've just shot him,” Sherlock mutters as they break apart at the sound of sirens and they both start to laugh as John kisses him again.

-

In May Sherlock is stalking a dancer whose name appears to be Amy based on the rhinestones on her jewelry box. They're rifling around in a backstage costume closet at a small theatre and Sherlock's fingers slide over a particularly deep blue be-ribboned top of some kind. The color looks familiar, and something clicks in the back of John's mind.

“You still have it, don't you.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and John can feel his hackles rise. Sherlock would never have thrown away something that came from Moriarty and John can't decide if the catch in his breathing is his desire to find it and burn it or his sudden itching to unwrap Sherlock out of it.

“Have you worn it?” he asks, voice sounding deeper even in his own ears.

There's a smirk dancing at the corners of Sherlock's lips as he steps closer, pushing into John's space. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he breathes against John's ear, hair brushing across his temple, and John laces fingers of one hand into Sherlock's belt loop.

“Your _gift_.” He hisses the last word like it's something obscene.

“Once,” Sherlock says, voice low and John feels it reverberate against him.

Sherlock doesn't volunteer any more information but he doesn't have to, John's thoughts already spiraling off into Sherlock alone in his bedroom, the slide of the sleek black fabric up his long legs. The back would have been impossible to lace up properly but he's flexible enough that he could get it started on his own, pulling it closed just enough to cling on, the deep indigo of the fabric bringing out the blue in his eyes and the black standing in sharp contrast to his pale skin

“Did it fit?” He curls his other hand around Sherlock's hip, tugs him closer.

The smirk slides across Sherlock's face as he looks up from under his lashes. “Perfectly.”

A floorboard creaks somewhere close by and Sherlock crowds into him, forcing them into the shadows and John's back up against the wall.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, breathing into his ear, voice sending skitterings of want across John's skin as Sherlock grazes his fingernails down John's neck, chasing them with his teeth. “Would you want to see it?”

As if the physical evidence now pressing into Sherlock's hip weren't proof enough, he can't hold back a choked-off groan before Sherlock slaps a hand over his mouth, but his triumphant expression is enough that John bites at the tips of his fingers and Sherlock's breath grows harsher.

“He wanted you to wear it for him,” John growls as Sherlock's hand drops to grab at his collar. “I can think of better uses.”

When no more noise is forthcoming Sherlock steps back, turning to go, and John catches Sherlock's wrist to stop his leaving. “Can't have you forgetting where you belong.”

-

John has never really had a way with words. There isn't a lot of time to be poetic when you're elbow-deep in viscera and it's generally more important to be understood and obeyed than terribly descriptive. So when, a week later, Sherlock yells for him from his bedroom and John shoves his computer off his lap with only the mildest irritated huff, he can't be entirely blamed for not having the words to process the sight awaiting him.

If Sherlock's legs are impossibly long when he's splayed against John's sheets they're even longer with sheer black stockings clinging up them for miles, intricate lace tops hooked into thin black fastenings taut against his thighs.

Apparently Moriarty hadn't deemed it necessary to include pants with his gift. The straps holding up the stockings are fastened into what John finally has to admit to himself is a corset, sliding just over the jut of Sherlock's hipbones, and John can hardly tear his eyes upwards from the hardening cock bobbing between Sherlock's legs as he slowly walks toward him. It could almost be funny if John's brain hadn't shut off any response other than want. 

“I'm having a bit of trouble with the back,” Sherlock says as he turns around, shooting John a teasing look over his shoulder. 

For all his long limbs Sherlock has a solid, muscled torso without many curves to speak of, but the silky fabric manages to find some to cling to as John traces the zigzag of the lacing with his finger. The dark blue material is trimmed in the same black lace as the stockings, with some kind of serpentine motif curling around the edges like it wants to wrap Sherlock into itself. He slowly follows the laces up Sherlock's back, trailing his hand over the expanse of bare skin at the top and over the curve of his shoulder to his neck, where he's stopped by a thin black leather band with a silver buckle.

“You should see the front,” Sherlock says, voice deliberately pitched to go straight to John's cock, and John drags his nails down Sherlock's back a little harder as he retraces his earlier path. 

“In a minute,” he says, and pulls sharply on the loose hanging ends of the laces, making Sherlock hiss, and tightly tying them in a neat bow. His hand travels downward, following the swell of Sherlock's ass. He raises an eyebrow when he goes to circle his hole and finds it already loosened and slick and any coherent thought he'd managed to hang on to stutters to a halt.

“I see you had plans for this evening,” he says, barely managing to form words as he thinks of Sherlock rolling the stockings up and over his knees, fastening them up over his iliac crest, slowly tugging this satin shell around himself before going for the lubricant in the nightstand, biting his lip as he slid one finger in, then another.

“The real question,” Sherlock says as he turns around, though John nearly can't hear over his own pulse, “is what I was thinking about.”

It's then that John notices a silver plate on the front of the collar with the letters “JM” engraved on it in gaudy loopy script and something in him snaps. He hooks his fingers in the garters and forces Sherlock back, pushing him until his knees hit the bed and he has no choice but to fall back onto his hands, looking up at John. 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, looking far too pleased with himself. “Don't like that, do you.”

He half expects Sherlock to try to stand, to push back, but he doesn't move as John pulls his own shirt off and throws it aside, fumbles at his jeans before he decides they're too much effort and straddles Sherlock's lap instead. 

“I don't, actually,” he says into Sherlock's ear before shoving him flat with a hand on his shoulder. He holds Sherlock's wrist down down his other hand and kneels over him, surrounding him so he can't move without John's permission. 

“Not the outfit itself though,” Sherlock says. John takes his hand off Sherlock's shoulder to reach for the lube that's been left next to the bed, but doesn't release the one holding onto his wrist. Sherlock, of course, doesn't stop talking. “You're perfectly fine with that. So what could our problem be.”

He sighs languidly as John slides one finger into him, followed by a second when the muscle gives, though not as easily as he'd expected. 

“John,” Sherlock groans, trying to push back onto his fingers. 

Well, if Sherlock wants to feel it.

He has to briefly give up his command over Sherlock to fully kick his jeans and pants off and slide on a condom before he rearranges himself between Sherlock's legs, hooking his elbow behind one of Sherlock's knees as he traces the lace edging of its stocking with his tongue. Sherlock digs his heel into John's back, pushing him forward. He bites the sensitive inside of Sherlock's thigh in warning that he is not going to be rushed, thank you, and slowly licks his way up the side of Sherlock's erection.

“You think these were intended for a nice slow fucking, then,” Sherlock says mockingly, dragging out every syllable until it's almost indecent, and John's mind falls into a vicious loop of Sherlock wearing this outfit for its intended viewer, Moriarty holding Sherlock down, hissing into his ear as he bends him over, Moriarty yanking Sherlock backward by his laces, looking teasingly over his shoulder, nipping at his neck as Sherlock sighs. And Sherlock chuckles as John moves back up his body, throwing his other leg over John's shoulder as John's hand tightens on his thighs, breath catching as John pushes into him.

“No,” John says, watching Sherlock writhe as he snaps his hips forward. “I don't.”

Sherlock's skin is damp with a faint sheen of sweat and his neck arches back, hair falling out of his eyes as the light catches on the collar's small silver nameplate, black leather wrapped around the column of his throat. The sight of the etched letters sends the blood pounding harder through John's ears as he bends Sherlock's knees back farther and fucks him with deep, hard strokes and Sherlock moans, hands scrabbling across the sheets, John's back, John's arms. John's. 

“Mine,” he growls, and Sherlock's laugh is a low, breathless rumble.

“Do you need to hear me say it?” Sherlock asks, and John bites at his neck in response, running his tongue over skin just starting to chafe against its adornment.

John pulls back to look at Sherlock and their gazes snap together before Sherlock growls back, “prove it.”

The angry jealous creature that he's been suppressing for so long throws back its head and yowls and John's hips start to stutter as he drives into him harder, and Sherlock's laugh catches on a low groan as he braces himself with an arm against the headboard and fucks back onto John just as hard. His other hand claws a stinging trail down John's shoulder as his fingernails catch. 

He manages to roughly wrap one hand around Sherlock's cock, twisting up and over the head and Sherlock's taunting descends into a meaningless string of obscenities, digging his nails hard into John's arm as he comes. He doesn't hold out much longer, the feel of Sherlock convulsing around him and the sight of his come now marring the sheen of the silk pushing him over the edge and he falls onto his elbows, panting into Sherlock's neck.

“You,” he mutters, not entirely sure how to finish the sentence but it's definitely not complimentary.

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement before disentangling himself and wrapping around John like a sloth, and John gently cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Maybe he'll go get that engraving redone for Christmas.

–

They're returning home from dinner a few days later when John spots another glitter-covered envelope stuck in their mailbox. He unsuccessfully grabs for it but Sherlock's gangly limbs give him an unfair advantage and he tugs it out first and practically leaps up the stairs. 

“Sherlock, seriously, this is really not–”

He sighs as he sees the last glimpse of the disc sliding into his computer and lunges for a pillow as soon as he hears the first few synthesized chords coming from the speakers that have really had enough of this for one laptop's lifetime.

Sherlock _cackles_ and John decides there is no hope for his sanity as he buries his face in the pillow. He can already see a future of, “But here's my number, so call me maybe!” circling around endlessly in his head.

It's just one song on the CD. Sherlock hits 'repeat.'


End file.
